


Things Better Left Unsaid

by LeapAngstily



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Drunk Peerlo of Doom, Explicit Sexual Content, Gigi's questionable babysitting methods, Happy Birthday Old Man, M/M, PWP - Porn with Peerlo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-24
Updated: 2014-05-24
Packaged: 2018-01-26 08:29:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1681586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeapAngstily/pseuds/LeapAngstily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Andrea is drunk, Riccardo is tired, and they never do complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things Better Left Unsaid

**Author's Note:**

> Belated birthday fic for Pirlo (since I was too busy with my thesis earlier), inspired by [The Drunk Pirlo of Doom](http://squawkafootball.tumblr.com/post/86339457526/andrea-pirlo-completely-drunk-on-juventus-victory). Set during the night after the Juventus victory parade and Milan’s last game on Sunday night.

Riccardo thinks he should be surprised. No, he  _knows_  he should be surprised.  
  
It is not everyday – or night in this case – that you get out of bed and open the door to find the one and only Andrea Pirlo leaning on the doorframe, levelling you with a smouldering gaze that is basically telling you to get rid of your clothes at that very moment.  
  
Of course, the message might come across more clearly if Andrea did not have to visibly fight to keep his eyes open, and if the leaning on the doorframe thing was not just because he could not stand upright even if he tried.  
  
“You’re drunk,” Riccardo tells Andrea instead of greeting him, unimpressed, but moves out of the way to let him in nonetheless, “And where are your trousers?”  
  
Actually he is not quite sure he wants to know how Andrea ended up at his doorstep, his black boxers out for all the world to see. He is still wearing that horrible cap that rubs Juve’s success in Riccardo’s face when he is still far from over his own terrible season with Milan.  
  
Andrea saunters in, maybe less suavely than intended when he fumbles on his step and ends up leaning on Riccardo for support, “Gigi took ‘em. Dunno why.”  
  
Riccardo makes a mental note to call Gigi in the morning to let him know his attempt to keep Andrea from wandering off had not worked.  
  
“You smell funny,” Andrea mumbles, his face buried into Riccardo’s neck as the younger man tries to make him sit down. He clings to Riccardo’s neck, not allowing him to pull away once he accomplishes the task, resulting in an awkward half-hug with Riccardo almost twisted in half.  
  
“Forgot my soap, had to use Giampi’s instead,” Riccardo explains patiently, removing the stupid cap now that he has a chance, petting Andrea’s soft, unruly hair. It is unfair how he can be drunk out of this world, who knows how many hours since he took a shower, and still his hair is prettier than Riccardo’s.  
  
“Not that. You  _always_  use his soap,” Andrea scoffs, the consonants slurring together but fortunately still clear enough for Riccardo to understand, “You smell like— you? My Riccardo. And victory. Definitely victory.”  
  
“You’re drunk,” Riccardo tells him again, but this time he cannot keep the emotions out of his voice: the affection for Andrea but also the bitterness because it is Andrea’s victory, not his, never his.  
  
Andrea finally lets go, allowing Riccardo to stand up, but he wraps his arms around his waist before Riccardo has a chance to move away from him, pressing his face against Riccardo’s t-shirt-clad stomach, humming against the fabric contently.  
  
“I gotta be up early for the inauguration tomorrow,” Riccardo reminds him gently, going for a reprimanding tone but failing miserably. His hands stay in Andrea’s hair, caressing the soft strands slowly, a wordless plea for something. For Andrea to let go, perhaps. Or maybe to _never_  let go.  
  
Andrea lifts Riccardo’s shirt just enough to press a kiss against his bellybutton. His beard tickles the sensitive skin just above the waistband of his boxers, and no, this is not a good time to get turned on because Andrea is going to fall asleep any moment now and then Riccardo will be stuck lying awake for the rest of the night.  
  
“You’ve lost weight,” Andrea notes absent-mindedly, his lips still pressed against Riccardo’s skin so that Riccardo feels his words more than hears them. Riccardo has no idea how Andrea does that, notices things nobody else pays any attention to even while intoxicated.  
  
“Not that much,” he assures Andrea, although the last word is swallowed up in a soft gasp when Andrea gropes his ass, his hands not quite steady on his buttocks but it is still enough to remind Riccardo that he is not the master of his own body – Andrea is.  
  
“You— You shouldn’t start what you can’t finish,” he whispers when Andrea slips his fingers under the waistband and pulls his boxers down to his thighs, still kissing and licking his abdomen, not paying any mind to his quickly hardening cock.  
  
“Oh but I intend to,” it almost sounds like Andrea is sobering up, but Riccardo does not let the appearances fool him. He knows Andrea has more reasons to drink than just winning the  _scudetto_ : there is the divorce, the gossip, not being able to see his kids…  
  
Maybe Riccardo is somewhere in there, too, although he does not want to flatter himself.  
  
“I missed you,” Andrea is speaking again, an almost unintelligible grumble against his skin, “Everyone else had their families with them. Even Gigi. I wanted you there, Riccardo.”  
  
“No, you wanted your kids,” Riccardo argues matter-of-factly, although the words make him feel good nonetheless. Much too good to be true, “You’ve got your own life and I’ve got mine. My place is with my team.”  
  
“But I wanted  _you_ ,” Andrea insists, looking up at Riccardo and there is more clarity in his eyes than there has been since he came here, “I miss you. Every second. I miss you even now.”  
  
“You’re drunk,” Riccardo repeats, now with a smile, but his voice is firm enough to get the message across. Andrea would never say these things sober. They cannot have that, it would be too complicated. They are not good at complicated.  
  
Andrea responds by stroking Riccardo’s cock with his hand, then licking the underside slowly, the brush of his beard feeling almost like a caress against Riccardo’s sensitive flesh.  
  
Riccardo lets out a relieved sigh when Andrea takes the tip of his erection into his mouth, sucking on it softly, his tongue circling around it, tasting him curiously, as if this was the first time they were doing this.  
  
It does not take long, even with Andrea’s fumbling touches, one hand caressing Riccardo’s balls while the other keeps stroking his length, his mouth on him more intuitive than the deliberate, controlled actions Riccardo has grown so used to.  
  
“I’m gonna come,” Riccardo gasps his warning, his hands still buried in Andrea’s hair, not forcing his movements, just feeling him there, keeping himself grounded as the first waves of pleasure wash over him.  
  
Andrea pulls back at his words, letting the cum hit his lips and cheek instead of his mouth.  
  
He looks ridiculous like that, the trails of seed clinging to his beard, but he just laughs: a wide, open grin, his eyes drooping lazily as he looks up at Riccardo and leans in to lick off the last remains of cum from the tip of his softening cock, “I love your smell. Your taste too, but the smell’s the best.”  
  
“You’re drunk,” Riccardo whispers as he drops down to his knees in front on Andrea, trying to stop his voice from trembling, because what he really wants to say is too strong, too complicated. They cannot do complicated.  
  
“And I love you,” Andrea continues, his eyes closed now as he presses his forehead against Riccardo’s, their noses brushing together, and Riccardo can smell his own cum on Andrea. How could anyone like the smell, he has no idea, but it is still there, binding them together in some sick, complicated way.  
  
“You’re drunk,” he repeats again, rubbing Andrea’s bare thighs carefully, reaching for his awaiting cock. No more words, he cannot take any more words. Just actions.  
  
He is responded by a soft snore, and one look at Andrea’s face confirms that he has indeed fallen asleep right there, sitting on an uncomfortable chair in Riccardo’s small lobby, his face stained with Riccardo’s cum.  
  
“Told you so,” Riccardo laughs humourlessly, pressing a kiss against Andrea’s nose before reaching for a tissue box, wiping Andrea’s face carefully before pressing his face into his lap, just enjoying the closeness for a while.  
  
Carrying Andrea to the bed is one option, but Riccardo knows it would mean not getting any sleep for the rest of the night, his brain on overdrive. So instead he picks up a blanket from the living room and wraps it around Andrea’s shoulders.  
  
Then, on an impulse, he picks up a red permanent marker – red because Andrea is all white and black, something decidedly  _not Riccardo’s_  – scribbling a message on Andrea’s palm before heading back to bed with one last kiss against Andrea’s knuckles.  
  
 _Happy birthday old man. I love you too._


End file.
